No Compromise
by off-the-deep-end
Summary: We meet our characters at a very tumultuous point in their lives. Rosalie fears she has made a huge mistake, and being unintentionally selfish makes another decision that affects many lives along the way. R
1. Chapter 1

The gurgle of the coffee pot filled the silence. The clock on the microwave flashed 12:00 over and over. The power had obviously flashed out at some point. She took a step across the room towards the offending numbers and then thought better. She could reset the time in the morning. She turned back to her coffee. It was spitting and sputtering and dripping. She watched as the pot grew steadily fuller and reached to the cupboard above her head for a mug. Snatching the pot out from the drip she poured quickly, not quite enough for a full cup, but enough to kick start her. She listened as the drops hit the hot plate, sizzling and cracking as they evaporated. She replaced the pot, she couldn't waste good caffeine.

Taking a gulp of the burning liquid, she tapped her fingers on the counter, drumming out a complex rhythm as she waited for her java to finish brewing. She looked at her naked, left ring finger. Pondered it for a moment. She'd said no. She loved him. She knew she loved him. What she didn't know was why she'd panicked when he'd asked her.

At least he'd made it private, hadn't asked her at a sports game, or a five star restaurant. He'd just asked her in the back yard. He'd gotten down on one knee in front of her on the porch swing, and he'd looked so hopeful, so proud. And she'd said no. She'd said the words he hated. _I can't._ He was a sports fanatic, the words _I can't_ were the words he hated most of all.

"_I can't,"_ she'd said the first time her piano teacher had given her Beethoven's Opus 7 in E-flat major and she'd refused to even touch the keys.

"You _can_," he'd insisted. "You just _won't._"

"_I can't,"_ She'd whimpered when the veterinarian had told her that it was time to put her dog to sleep.

"You can," he'd whispered, rubbing her back and holding her hand. "It's hard, but you can."

"_I can't wear that!" _she'd exclaimed when he showed her the sumo-wrestling suit she needed to wear at the county fair two summers before. He'd only laughed and pushed her towards it. She struggled into it and he'd just grinned, because she could.

"_I can't watch," _she'd cried when he'd told her he was entering a demolition derby in his Hicksville hometown. "They're going to smash you up. I _can't_ watch!"

"I need you to watch, babe. I need you to. It'll be fun. I'm tough. Please will you watch?" He'd been so proud of his car. He'd painted it all up, tuned the engine, made it rev like a monster truck. It was his pride and joy. And it and he were going to be smashed to smithereens.

"I _can't,_" she'd replied.

"You can," he said, sounding defeated. "But will you?"

She'd watched.

The sonata had been grueling. It had taken her months to truly master it, but she had. Putting Pete to sleep was the hardest decision she'd ever had to make, but he'd been there with her, and she knew it was the right decision, so she had said her goodbyes and tried not to look back. Watching Emmett be smashed into by other vehicles, on purpose, repeatedly, had nearly given her a heart attack, but it had been important to him, and so she had never torn her eyes from him.

But saying yes to a ring and a life had been too difficult. It shouldn't have been. It should have been the easiest decision of her life. It was Emmett. He'd been there through every little thing, important and trivial, since she'd met him five years previously. He'd been her best friend, and then he became her boyfriend, and she loved him, and he loved her more. And they'd moved in together. He'd bought a house. They were happy. But she couldn't say yes. She couldn't even say no. She'd said _I can't._

The look on his face had nearly brought her to her knees, nearly made her change her mind. The way his smile disappeared as he registered her words, how his eyes had hardened. The way he'd swallowed audibly and put the ring back in his pocket.

"Em," she'd whispered, trying not to sound broken. He'd shrugged her off.

"It's fine." He'd fought to sound cool. He hadn't argued her _I can't_. He hadn't asked her why. He'd just accepted it and gone inside. She heard the TV blasting TSN. She'd considered leaving, calling up her parents and going there for a while, but she didn't. She didn't want him to think she didn't want to be with him. Because she did, more than anything. She just somehow, couldn't bring herself to accept his proposal.

They'd tip toed around each other for the rest of the evening. She'd retreated to the music room, and he'd stayed watching TV until dinner. They'd shared a pizza, the silence deafening. Afterwards he'd gone for a run. She'd escaped back to the music room and hadn't emerged until she felt the need for coffee. She wasn't even sure what time it was, only that it was late, but she didn't want to go to bed.

The coffee maker gurgled its last and she topped up her cup, spilling some on her hand and cursing quietly. She'd spend the night in the music room, writing and rewriting a bridge that had been bothering her for days, the bitter brew her only company.

The next night was similar, and the next. More than once she let herself doze in her chair, but she woke herself, made a pot of coffee, and continued in her work. Emmett had reset the clock on the microwave, though he'd yet to say anything to her. Once they'd met in the kitchen and he'd eyed the used coffee filters, and then given her a strange, sad look before heading out the door.

She wanted to go to him, to apologize, to be forgiven. But she didn't feel she was deserving of forgiveness, but worse, she was afraid he _wouldn't_ forgive her. So she continued to pull her all-nighters, avoiding the bedroom except to dress in the morning once he'd left for work, and catching cat naps throughout the day.

Five days into the routine she was brewing her midnight coffee, leaning against the counter, trying to keep her eyes open when she heard footsteps. She turned slightly towards him and made a face of acknowledgement. He crossed the kitchen and turned the coffee pot off, mid gurgle. She started to protest, but changed her mind, instead staring at him with her mouth slightly open.

"Come to bed," he requested quietly. It wasn't a question, but she could still refuse. She stayed where she was, closing her mouth and crossing her arms across her chest. She absentmindedly stroked her left ring finger with her thumb, feeling the nakedness beneath her fingertip. He still stood across the kitchen from her. His boxers were wrinkled from being slept in, and his t-shirt was a size too big. He looked tired and dragged down and young. His eyes were begging her to come with him; too wide as he fought to keep the sorrow from showing. The sorrow she'd caused.

She raked her hands through her long, blonde tresses and sighed. "Are you sure?" Her voice was barely a raspy whisper. She hadn't used it in days. He crossed the kitchen towards her slowly, as though approaching a prey animal that might flee at any time.

"I haven't slept in days," he admitted, standing in front of her, looking down at her trembling form. "Please come to bed."

Her huge blue eyes looked up at him through teardrop-graced lashes; her lower lip trembled as she tried to hold back the sob that was trying to erupt from her chest. He wanted her, even now after all she'd done, he wanted her. She didn't deserve him, and he deserved better, but he held out his hand to her and she looked at it longingly. She wanted _nothing_ more than to slide her tiny hand into her larger one and let him lead her to bed. She was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of not sleeping, tired of not being near him, tired of feeling like everything was her fault. She lifted her eyes to his once more, silently pleading with him to understand.

How could they get past this? You don't refuse a proposal and then continue right where you left off.

"Rosalie?" His voice had a worried edge to it that she'd never heard before. She pulled her eyes from his and looked at the floor.

"I can't."


	2. Chapter 2

He left her there, standing in the kitchen with a half brewed pot of coffee and a broken heart, compliments only of her. He was standing, looking out the window onto the street, hands on his hips, head bowed.

"Is that what you've been doing the past five days? Trying to decide whether to stay or go?" His voice was quiet and gravelly. She'd never heard him sound as exhausted as he did in that moment.

She didn't answer him, though if he'd turned around he would have seen her recoil as though she'd been slapped.

"You could at least have the decency to answer me. I think I deserve that much." The tone of his voice hardened but he never turned to look at her.

"Em…" she started, trying to decide what the right answer was.

"Just answer the question, Rosalie. Please, just answer the question."

"No," she stated firmly, standing up straight and staring down the back of his head. "No, that is _not_ what I've spent the last week doing. I spent the last week beating myself up over everything that happened."

"Yeah, right. _Poor_ you. You're not the one that got kicked in the face by the person he loves and respects and _needs_ more than anything and anyone else in the world. So while I can imagine that you've been beating yourself up for it, because god damnit, I _know_ you Rose, and you'd do that shit. While you've been doing that, I've been the one trying to figure out what I did wrong, what signs I read incorrectly, to make such a giant mistake. Your pain is self inflicted. You can stop it whenever you want."

"You think I _like_ feeling this way? I _enjoy_ this misery?" Her voice was a hiss in the silence.

Emmett slapped the wall hard with the flat of his huge hand and turned to look at her.

"Why won't you marry me?"

She expected to see his eyes blazing, but instead they were still empty and haunted. "I don't know," she whispered.

He took a step towards her. She stayed where she was, and he kept walking. He had to put himself out there one more time. He had to understand what was going on in her head. He reached an arm out and touched her shoulder. She flinched away as though in pain. She was startled by the contact. The only contact she'd had in nearly a week was her own. Her own hands washing her hair, her own fingers scratching a mosquito bite. She hadn't expected the heat and the shock of his touch.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked quietly, though still louder than her pitiful whisper.

She closed her eyes. Images flashed through her memory. Everything was blurred, faces, shadowed from the darkness of the room, laughter, loud and harsh to her ears. A voice, screaming at her. Pain. Everywhere pain. Red. She saw red. And then black.

"I'm not afraid of you," she replied, her voice shaking.

"That isn't what I asked," he insisted.

It had taken Emmett a long time to earn Rosalie's trust. The first time he laid eyes on her, he knew he was in love. Anyone who said love at first sight didn't exist just hadn't experienced it for themselves. She'd been walking across the parking lot of the apartment building where he lived, swinging a black, leather purse and not paying an ounce of attention to where she was going. She stomped in a puddle in one of her designer shoes and stopped dead, looking horrified for a moment, before hopping out of the puddle, shaking the wet foot off and continuing on her way.

After that it was only a matter of time before he saw her again. The first time he met her in person, they were in the elevator. He'd made the fatal mistake of asking her if she was a cheerleader at the opposing university, since as a football player, he'd definitely have seen her at his school. She glared daggers at him and punched the button of the floor she was getting off at angrily.

"Is that all anyone thinks when they see blonde hair? Cheerleader? I'm in my last year of engineering."

"Engineering?" He'd tried to hide his surprise.

"Aerospace," was her proud reply.

"Do you have a name?" he'd blurted out as she was about to step out on the tenth floor. She turned to look at him haughtily.

"There were so many of us, my parents just gave me a number."

She'd walked away, the doors had slid shut, and Emmett and leaned his head against the mirrored wall, infatuated.

The next time they met in the elevator was two weeks later. She introduced herself to him as "Rose" with no other information and he'd invited her in for a drink. She'd turned him down. "I don't live here," she told him. "Just visiting a friend." It was a seemingly pointless piece of information, but he filed it away anyway. "She's packing. She needs help."

Packing! Packing was the word he registered. If Rose's friend left the building, so would Rose. So he made an offer on the fly.

"Does she need help moving?"

Rose had laughed. "Who offers to lug furniture down 10 stories?"

"Me I guess," he'd admitted.

"I'll let her know. What's your apartment?"

He'd told her without hesitation, and then watched her hurry towards her friend's apartment. She didn't notice until later, that he lived three floors below her friend.

Emmett hadn't liked Vera, but he had liked her light weight IKEA furniture. When he helped her move at the beginning of the month he hoped that it was enough to get on Rose's good side. Her friend was a royal pain in the ass. She was constantly fluttering everywhere, but not actually _doing_ anything. Afterward he'd invited Rose to dinner. She'd accepted, and paid for herself.

It became a comfortable friendship. Vera had moved a few hours away, and Rose admitted herself that she had few friends. Emmett became her constant, but she was always very aware of her surroundings, and she watched everything like a hawk. She also insisted on keeping things completely plutonic.

And then one day, while they were walking back to his apartment after class, he'd grabbed her hand. She was stiff in his grip for a moment, before relaxing and squeezing back ever so slightly. Emmett felt like he'd won the lottery. It wasn't long before she yanked her hand back though, walking a few steps ahead of him until she could cross the street, away from his building. She hadn't spoken to him for a month.

"Please tell me what you're afraid of," he repeated, pulling himself back to the present. "Please don't run."

She pulled away from him and moved to sit on a stool by the island. "I don't want things to change," she told him, abruptly.

"What's going to change?"

"Everything!" she exclaimed. She raked her hair out of her face again, pulling on it and exhaling sharply in frustration. "Everything will change. You won't just be Emmett anymore. You'll be my husband. That piece of paper will change _everything!"_

"Nothing is going to change. I still love you. Nothing is going to change."

"I'm not ready," she insisted.

"You'll never be ready, then," he replied sadly.

"Maybe not," she agreed, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

"You don't love me," he accused.

"Of course I love you," she insisted. "I love you more than anything."

"You don't love me enough."

"How much is enough?" She was taken aback by his statement.

"Enough to not want an easy escape route at any moment. Right now you can leave. Once we're married, leaving is harder. Is that what you're scared of? Not being able to run from your problems? Because that does seem to be an option you want available to you at every turn."

"Maybe that's it," she agreed.

"Then maybe you're right. Maybe you should exercise that option."


	3. Chapter 3

She swallowed her pride and called her parents. Her mother made a big deal out of telling her _I told you so_ but told her that her bedroom would be aired out when she arrived. Her daddy hired her a truck. Emmett left. He said he couldn't watch the boxes leave; couldn't watch her drive away. She packed. The furniture was Emmett's. It meant little heavy lifting for the moving guys. Only her dad could get movers on such short notice. She was grateful of his influence for the first time in a very long time.

She left most of the photos. She knew they were more important to Emmett than they were to her anyway. She'd never had much use for photographs; they were just a reminder of the past. A stilled moment in time where the person looked happy just because someone had pointed a camera in their direction. She lifted one particular photo off of her dresser and studied it hard for a moment. Emmett stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, grinning impishly at the camera. His dimples were obvious around his mouth; his eyes were crinkled so much that if she hadn't already known the colour, she wouldn't have been able to guess. He was relaxed and happy. To anyone else, she would look just as happy. She was sitting on the low tree swing in Emmett's parents' backyard. She was relaxed, she looked relaxed in the photo, and she remembered feeling relaxed. It was a warm day in June, Emmett's birthday to be exact, and his mother had wanted a picture for her scrapbook. Why she was still scrapbooking when her kids were twenty-five and almost thirty was a real mystery to Rosalie, but she'd quickly learned not to question Mrs. McCarty's hobbies.

Rosalie was smiling at the camera too, looking happy and carefree, at first glance. She studied the photograph more closely, realizing that in every photo of her, there was a certain flatness to her eyes. It was as though some people came alive in photos, but not her. Her smile was just a little bit too wide. Like she was trying to look happy, not like she was. Her teeth were too straight thanks to years of expensive orthodontics. She noticed her eyes didn't crinkle like Emmett's. And the brown was just brown. The deep brown didn't soften the flatness though. They were still almost two dimensional, nearly void of emotion, like the feeling just skirted around the edges of her smile.

She had always liked the colour of her eyes. Brown eyes with golden hair made a striking contrast that few people bore. She had inherited her mother's blonde curls, but her father's brown eyes had snuck through onto their only child. Her mother had always said her brown eyes softened her features. She'd agreed with her only because her mother's icy blue orbs tended to flash terrifyingly when she was angry. As she got older, Rosalie learned that her dark eyes managed to look empty. Void of any emotion including anger.

In the photo, her hands clutched the old, graying ropes of the swing tightly, and she could see her arms looking nearly transparent from the lack of sun, and so thin they looked fragile. Hardly the body of a happy, vibrant twenty four year old.

The movers took her boxes of clothes, books and sheet music. She had debated leaving Emmett with the dishes, but decided against it, she had bought the dishes and she planned on keeping them. Carefully they were packed away too. She wrapped her electric keyboard in yards of bubble wrap and they helped her move it into the back seat of her car, along with her guitars. In less than three hours all of Rosalie's possessions had been removed from Emmett's house, making it look as though she'd never been there, save for the empty music room at the end of the hall.

The drive to her parents' country house was a long one. One that gave her copious amounts of time to think. She set the cruise control when she pulled out onto the highway, and turned the radio up, hoping to drown out the sound of Emmett's voice as he suggested she leave. She could hear his parting words over and over. _Maybe you should exercise that option._ The words were bad enough, but his voice was that of a defeated man. She wished he'd screamed at her, thrown things, yelled. But instead he had stayed eerily calm through the whole thing.

All of the time Rosalie had known Emmett he was vibrant. It was the only word for him. He exuded confidence, he was energetic. If Emmett were a colour he'd be bright, fiery orange. Passionate, hot burning, upbeat and fun. Everything that Rosalie didn't feel she was. He was a Caribbean beach, with sun all day, azure skies and white sand beaches. And she was a parched desert; an environment which could sustain very little, with a lot of brown, drought and prickly things.

She'd always wondered why he chose her. It wasn't a mystery why she'd chosen him. It was as obvious as being smacked in the face. She would never have pursued him, Rosalie Hale pursued no one. She didn't even enjoy being pursued, but she enjoyed Emmett's company, and he did it so stealthily that she had no idea what had happened until it danced naked in front of her. Figuratively of course. She knew she'd been a tough egg to crack, but crack she had under persistence.

The highway was winding and narrowed out as she left the city limits. Lawns became more lush, greener, and larger as the time passed. She stopped once to use a bathroom, fill up with gas and grab a tea before heading back out on the road.

She thought about the first time she'd taken Emmett to meet her parents. Having come from a small farming community, Emmett had moved to the big city to pursue his dreams of becoming a writer. Six years later he was pushing papers for a large corporation for the pay cheque, and writing on the side. The big city had been a huge step for the boy who had grown up in a town of less than a thousand people, and bussed to school in the neighbouring town of less than five times that. Taking the drive to the Hale's country estate had been culture shock at its finest. Mrs. Hale had insisted on a seven course meal and Emmett had been overwhelmed by the sheer number of forks alone.

"There are more forks on my place, than are in my entire apartment," he'd whispered nervously, fingering the table cloth, his agitation obvious.

"Start from the outside," she'd whispered back, pointing to the first fork he would require. Mrs. Hale had snapped at them for whispering. It had gone downhill from there. Emmett had used a dessert fork for salad, and while she didn't say anything, Mrs. Hale had given him a rather disapproving look and then sent a confused one in Rosalie's direction. Rosalie had just smiled. It didn't bother her that Emmett didn't know a fish fork from a pie fork. In fact, it was part of what she loved about him. He was unpretentious; he'd use a tumbler for wine and enjoy it just as much. He had no preconceived notions of people and had embraced her family, as different as it was from his, with open arms. He was _real._ But reality wasn't _reality_ for Rosalie Hale. She should have known it was too good to be true. She would be trading her electric keyboard in for a baby grand, and her guitars for a harp if her mother had anything to say about it.

"I knew you'd need to stop living like a hooligan eventually," she'd said when Rose had called her up and asked if she could come home. "You have roots, Rosalie. They run deep. Ever since you moved to that city you've been like a cut flower. It's time to return to where you belong."

Home hadn't been her favourite option, but it had been her best option. Maybe she wasn't meant to live her own life. Maybe it was time she handed the reins back over to her mother for a little while and see what she could do with the mess she had made.

Her love for Emmett was strong, but obviously not strong enough, and while he had wanted her, he had given her too much freedom and she had to do what was best for him. She had to let Emmett live his life, have the chance at something normal and good. Rosalie knew she couldn't be given too much freedom. She had known it since she was a little girl.

She turned down a narrow, paved road and navigated the hills and turns expertly, having driven the route dozens of times. Ahead she saw the canopy of trees, so green it was almost sickening, and past that, an ornate gate. She passed her key chip through the scanner and watched as the gates swung open, a doorway to her past, and hopefully some kind of future.


	4. Chapter 4

After three days Rosalie was restless. Everything in the house was too clean. She couldn't find a spot of dust to remove, a crooked book to straighten, or a dot of mud on the floor to vacuum up. And she liked to clean when she was upset. She'd unpacked all of her boxes, and reorganized everything twice already. She was seriously contemplating making a mess just so she could clean it up. She'd specifically requested that the cleaning ladies not enter her bedroom. Her mother had pursed her lips but agreed.

Apart from meals, she never saw her parents. Realistically it was more than she'd seen of her father when she'd lived with them previously though. He worked late hours and wasn't interested in visiting with his daughter when he got home from a hectic day at the office.

When she was fourteen her family sent her off to boarding school and she was only home for summers and holidays. They had employed nannies until she was twelve; someone to make sure her clothes matched, her hair was done, homework complete, and someone to eat her meals with. Her father was never home and her mother was too involved in her charity work to want anything to do with her gap toothed child. Between twelve and fourteen she had managed to fend for herself but it was obvious that Rosalie needed more guidance than she was getting, and that's when the sent her off to St. Mary's.

St. Mary's was a large, co-ed, Catholic boarding school a few hours south of the Hale's country residence. Rosalie had been happy there for a time. She had nice roommates whom she became quick friends with, she enjoyed her classes, and she liked having someone other than one of her revolving nannies to talk to. Her years at St. Mary's were happy, and passed far too quickly for Rosalie's liking. Every year when the end of June came and summer vacation began, while everyone else was joyfully packing their things, trying to cram too many pairs of jeans into too small suit cases, Rosalie would slowly and methodically pack her bags, dreading her return to the family home.

It hadn't been like that after freshman year. After freshman year she was just as excited to go home as her friends. She chatted animatedly as she tried to cram one more pair of socks into her already full to the breaking point suitcase, not thinking about her mother's reaction to the wrinkles which would be permanently pressed into her uniform. But after freshman year she avoided going home at all costs. She was an excellent student. An A average, class president, co-captain of the debate team and in the band, she kept busy, had a lot of friends, and didn't have time for more visits than were necessary.

Teachers commented that Rosalie was an _inspiration to her fellow students_ and had the potential _to be one of the great minds of the future._ She was caring and considerate, organized, driven and full of potential both academically and otherwise.

Her mother once commented on her lack of enthusiasm for anything when she was at home. She heard her mother and father discussing, on more than one occasion, how the Rosalie the teachers saw was obviously not the same Rosalie that came home for holidays. What her parents didn't know was the reason for the changes.

She was snapped out of her memories by a knock on the door. Her mother entered looking regal as always and crossed the floor to the desk chair where she was sitting.

"Your father and I are taking you out to dinner. A car is coming for us in two hours. Magda is bringing a dress up for you." She stared down at her daughter with a haughty expression on her featureless face. Rosalie watched as her painted on eyebrows barely moved and studied the complete lack of wrinkles around her sharp, blue eyes.

"Botox Mother, really?" Rosalie sounded bored in her change of subject.

Her mother only huffed and pointed to her adjoining bathroom. "2 hours Rosalie."

Lillian Hale was the epitome of society. She held summer garden parties for a variety of charities, organized winter galas, got her hair done professionally every week and employed more than ten people on her estate as gardeners, drivers, cooks and housekeepers. She served tea in find china and wine in fine crystal, and owned originals of some very fine art work. And she had Rosalie for a daughter. She shook her head as her Italian leather pumps clacked out of the room. Rosalie who wanted to play guitar in an indie band, who got her hair cut every six months, which didn't even come close to keeping the split ends under control, and who owned t-shirts from Old Navy. Lillian wouldn't _dream_ of owning a t-shirt.

Nearly two hours after her mother had left her room Rosalie was still not ready. She had managed to find a pearly pink nail polish in a cosmetics bag and had to paint her toe nails three times because her hand was so unsteady. She was towel drying her curls when Magda knocked on the door.

"Miss. Rosalie, your mother is waiting," she called, a slight accent to her words.

"I'll be there in a moment, Magda. Please let my mother know?" She phrased it as a question, still not comfortable with being back in a world where staff accepted being treated like secondary citizens.

Rosalie sighed, checking the time and realizing her two hours were indeed up. She smoothed some lip gloss over her already pink lips and in a few quick strokes applied mascara. It wasn't evening make up, her mother would no doubt give her grief, but she had run out of time.

The dress Magda had left out was a ridiculous lavender number, long to her knees with a tiered skirt and a silk belt below her bosom. Her mother had also supplied her with matching lavender silk dyed pumps. "I look like a washed out grape," she told Magda as she left her room.

"You look lovely, Miss. Rosalie," Magda droned, playing the part of the dutiful maid, but barely suppressing a smile. Rosalie saw this and grinned wryly.

"So glad I could make someone's evening," she retorted. Magda handed her a white handbag and rushed back into the room, telling her to stay where she was. She returned with large, pearl drop earrings.

"You forgot," she told her, moving to push her heavy locks out of the way and slide the earrings in. Rosalie winced in pain.

"I don't wear earrings," she managed to mutter as Magda shoved the point through her partially healed over earlobe.

"You do now," Magda replied. Rosalie sighed.

Her mother was waiting at the bottom of the stairs looking impatient. She snapped her eyes to her daughter's appearance and pursed her lips.

"An up-do would have been more appropriate," she snapped, rising from her seat in one of the wicker chairs. "The least you could have done was brush it." Her fingers darted out to poke a curl nastily. "The dress is good though."

Rosalie wrinkled her nose and walked towards the door. "Where's Daddy?"

"He'll meet us there. He's stuck at work."

"Of course he is," Rosalie muttered under her breath. It was going to be a _long_ evening.


	5. Chapter 5

The ride to the city was spent in icy silence. Her mother sat in the back of the car staring out the window and sipping expensive champagne. Rosalie examined the hideous lavender shoes closely. She found a tiny scuff at the edge of the sole, and an imperfection in the silk on the inside of the toe on the left. She considered mentioning this to her mother to ruin her _perfect outfit_ but decided against it, as she had over an hour and a half to sit in a confined space before they even reached the restaurant.

Finally, after what seemed like days, Lillian spoke. Her tone was condescending. "This moping around the house is not becoming, Rosalie. If your entire reason for spending time in my house is to lock yourself in your room and brood like a fifteen year old, I suggest you lock yourself in someone else's house. You need to start being grateful for what you have and who you know. Life will only get more difficult if you deny yourself the opportunities available to you.

"If you find yourself unable to function for whatever reason, I can make you an appointment with Dr. King. I'm sure he could prescribe you something."

Rosalie's eyes shot to her mother's, a nervous spark flashed through their depths. "I don't think it will be necessary," she replied quietly.

"Don't be ridiculous. He makes house calls. I've got an appointment with him tomorrow. I'll see if he can see you afterwards."

"Mother, I don't…"

"Don't be obstinate, Rosalie. You need to meet with him." She pulled a cell phone out of her purse and flipped it open. Rosalie opened her mouth to argue but thought better of it. She would have to do as her mother suggested or risk being left to fend for herself, which wasn't really an option.

Her mother finished talking sweet to the receptionist or whoever it was she spoke to regarding her private meetings with Dr. King, and hung up the phone. "Sorry about that, darling. I generally disapprove of people making calls in the middle of a social engagement, but I think this was an extenuating circumstance, don't you?"

Rosalie bit back a bitter laugh. _Social engagement_. _Darling. Extenuating circumstance._ Her mother's complete submersion into the life of the rich was almost stunning. If anyone were to meet Lillian Hale on the street they would never assume that she had come from a middle class, blue collar household in western Pennsylvania.

Rosalie had met her Johnson grandparents on only one occasion in her life. They came to her Great Uncle Joseph's funeral when she was six. Lillian had cut off all communications with her parents the day she married Arthur Hale. From that day forth she became Lillian Hale, wife of CEO Arthur Hale. There was no Lilly Johnson left inside her tough shell.

Lillian's transition into the world of privilege and wealth was as natural as breathing. She enjoyed being the pampered wife of an important man. Lillian fit into Arthur's life perfectly. She was beautiful, elegant, and in awe of his status. In exchange for beautiful clothes, expensive cars and the finest of china, Lillian put up with any and all of Arthur's indiscretions. That was, after all what was expected. She was to turn a blind eye and let on that everything in their marriage was sunshine and butterflies. It's what all the wives did. They had afternoon drinks on the patio and discussed the charity they were supporting that year, and lied through their teeth about their doting, loving husbands.

Rosalie discovered this when she was sixteen. She had been at a garden party with her mother, listening closely to the chatter that was going on around her, stunned by the shallowness of it all. Lillian was discussing the lovely dinner that Arthur had taken her and Rosalie to on the weekend. _Family time_ she'd called it, insisting that Arthur thought it was of utmost importance. Rosalie recalled the dinner perfectly. Her father had never shown up and her mother had charged the bill to the company's account. Rosalie knew by that time in her life that she was not to discuss the outing with anyone. Her mother went straight to her room when they got home, maintaining her composure at least until she was behind a locked door.

Like every wife of every _important_ business man, her mother was best at keeping up appearances, but by the time Rosalie left for boarding school she was convinced her father was having an affair. Her mother ignored any signs of it, at least when Rosalie was around, but when Rosalie graduated high school her mother's sister Annabelle came to the ceremony with Lillian. She had asked where Arthur was, but by then Rosalie had learned not to expect him. Lillian only told her sister that he was too busy with work to attend.

Annabelle was the only member of the family that Lillian kept in touch with. She had been somewhat involved in Rosalie's life for as long as she could remember. Annabelle was her sister's opposite. Where Lillian was hardened with sharp edges, Annabelle was sweet and kind and soft. She was also the only person who could thaw Lillian's cold exterior. After the graduation ceremony, back at the country house, Rosalie overheard her mother and aunt talking. Annabelle asked Lillian why she was putting up with Arthur, why she felt she was worth so little that she had to keep his indiscretions a secret. Lillian replied only that this was the life she had signed on for. She wanted the house and the cars and everything else, and if she wanted that, there were sacrifices that needed to be made.

It was that day that Rosalie vowed to _never_ put her need for _things_ ahead of her own happiness.

"Yes Mother," Rosalie replied icily. "_Extenuating circumstances._" She picked at the nail on her index finger, a nervous habit she had had for as long as she could remember.

"He'll see you tomorrow at 3 o'clock sharp in the drawing room."

"I really don't feel that therapy is necessary."

"If you're going to continue to reside in my house it is mandatory." Lillian fixed her with a chilling stare and Rosalie knew better than to continue the conversation. Against her better judgement she nodded in agreement, and turned to look out the window.

The rest of the drive was silent, and when they reached their destination the driver opened the door for Rosalie and her mother, and walked them to the door of the hotel. Lillian walked smartly past everyone milling around the elegant lobby, not allowing Rosalie even a peek at the décor, and led her all the way to the door of the restaurant.

"The Oak Room," Rosalie drawled, looking at her mother with disdain. "Daddy's really paying out this time. Does he have a new secretary?"

Lillian spun toward her daughter, fury etched on every hardened line of her face. "Don't you dare," she warned icily. Rosalie only fought back a smirk. The maitre d' came to meet them at the door, smiling broadly at them.

"Good evening Madam, Miss," he nodded his head respectfully in Rosalie's direction. She noticed his hands were clasped a little bit too tight. Her mother was a formidable woman and Rosalie was sure he'd seen their exchange. The tension could have been cut with a knife.

"Hale," Lillian replied sweetly, turning her attention to the young man in front of them.

"Of course. Right this way Mrs. Hale." He led them toward a small table on the edge of the dining room and politely drew out both of their chairs. "There is a third member of your party?" the maitre d' asked while turning over the water glasses.

"Of course," Lillian replied, eyes lingering a moment too long on the empty seat. Rosalie thought she saw a flash of an unknown emotion pass through her mother's eyes, but when she looked again she was convinced she was mistaken.

Lillian scanned the wine list, selecting an Italian merlot, which she described as having "light tannins and a delightful fruity flavour." Rosalie nodded, wishing her mother had ordered a chardonnay.

Much to Rosalie's surprise her father appeared just as the waiter poured the wine. He took his place looking his normal composed and proud self, saying nothing to either his family or the waiter.

"Sorry I'm late," he said quietly as the waiter left their presence. "Rosalie, how are you? You're looking tired." He peered over his wire rimmed glasses at her, his mustache twitching.

"I'm fine thank you, Daddy." She sipped her wine gingerly, trying to keep her hand from shaking.

"Your mother says you'll be staying with us a while." He carefully swirled his wine around the crystal glass.

"I suppose I will. I'll try not to be in the way too long."

Arthur Hale laughed quietly. "You won't be in the way. That house is too large as it is. I am curious though, you were working before, were you not?"

Rosalie reddened slightly under his gaze. "I'd been doing some freelance work," she offered, hoping to change the subject.

"What kind of freelance work can you do with an engineering degree?" Her father had tented his fingers and was watching her closely. Her mother's sharp eyes were darting between Arthur and Rosalie, a mix of fear and curiosity on her face.

"I'm not…._technically_ using my degree at the moment," Rosalie stated, hoping her brave voice would have some affect on her father.

"Technically?" He frowned at her. "What are you _technically_ doing?"

"I'm working in the music business," she mumbled, hoping the food would arrive soon, but knowing that probably wasn't going to happen.

"Doing?" Her father's one word questions were making her nervous.

"Composing?" She stated it like a question.

"Composing?" he repeated, smoothing his mustache, dark eyes hooded and emotionless. Rosalie merely nodded. "I see." He took a sip of his wine and turned to his wife. "Have you interviewed any potential replacements for Peter yet? I'm not happy with the work that temporary boy is doing."

Lillian cleared her throat and raised her eyes to his. "The gardener position in question isn't filled yet. I'm doing my best." She lowered her eyes again to the table looking slightly ashamed.

Arthur sighed. "I ask you to do _one_ thing. Just one. Find a new gardener. What do you do all day?" Lillian swirled her wine nervously. "You have so few responsibilities it's laughable. Do _I_ need to hire a gardener? No don't answer that. Obviously I do. There _will_ be a new gardener reporting early Monday morning. I expect you to be available to show him around and answer any questions."

"Of course darling," Lillian simpered. Rosalie grimaced at her tone but Arthur seemed satisfied. The waiter brought the first course and silence shrouded their table as they ate. The silence carried on all through dinner, and Arthur left before dessert, claiming there was an emergency in the office. Rosalie sincerely doubted there was an emergency at half past ten in the evening but she bit her tongue.


	6. Chapter 6

"Your mother tells me that you have some things you'd like to discuss with me." Dr. King sat back in the winged armchair in Lillian's drawing room and crossed his legs. His too-light eyes peered at Rosalie through round, wire rimmed spectacles, and his heavy brows rose slightly in curiosity. His hands were too still on the velvet arms of the chair.

"There is very little I wish to discuss with you," Rosalie retorted, sounding even to her own ears, extremely childish. She wished she _could_ discuss things with Dr. King, because even she could recognize that she needed some sort of therapy, but _Dr. King_ was the reason she couldn't talk about what was bothering her.

Dr. King was a man in his mid to late thirties, about twelve years Rosalie's senior, and the fourth generation of King doctors, though the first psychiatrist. His uncle had been her mother's GP. Dr. King's father had gone into banking. It was expected that Dr. King also go into banking, but he had no interest in it. His sister had stepped up as Mr. King's second in command when Dr. King had decided to pursue medicine.

"Now Rosalie," he pressed, his voice soft; a complete contradiction to his eyes, which seemed to be burning a hole in her forehead. "The appointment was made because you have some troubles which need to be," he paused looking almost fierce, and cleared his throat. "They need to be addressed, Miss Hale, and in order to do that you need to tell me what you're feeling."

Rosalie leaned forward, watching his face intently as she moved. "I feel nothing," she told him evenly, her dark eyes never leaving his pale ones. "I stopped feeling a very long time ago."

"Somehow I don't believe that is true," he replied, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. Rosalie merely shrugged. "Maybe you're nervous," he continued, pulling his prescription pad from his chest pocket. "From what your mother tells me, it sounds like you're suffering from some anxiety." He clicked his pen on his knee and set it to the paper.

"I really don't think a prescription is either a) necessary, or b) appropriate," Rosalie told him pointedly, sitting up straight and tapping her toe on the floor. She watched him scribble on his pad regardless. Tearing a page of, he folded it and handed it to her.

"Whether or not you fill it is entirely up to you," He leaned down and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I've only got your best interests at heart, Rosalie. I always have."

She jerked away suddenly, and rose quickly.

"Same time next week?" He asked, straightening up and making a show of tugging on his collar.

"I think we're done here," she replied coldly. "Have a _wonderful_ day." The sarcasm was only thinly veiled, and she didn't even bother to mask her angry footsteps as she left the room.

"How did your session go?" Lillian found Rosalie in the kitchen later that evening beating eggs.

"It was fine," her daughter replied, not taking her eyes off the frothy, yellow substance.

"Care to tell me why you missed dinner?"

Rosalie picked up a knife and began to violently chop peppers. "I wasn't hungry then."

"Dr. King had to show himself out." Lillian's eyebrows rose dangerously.

Rosalie said nothing. Lillian watched as she dropped the ingredients into her omlette. She ignored her mother as she waited for the egg to cook.

"You're seeing him next week," Lillian continued. Rosalie shook her head. "Rosalie," Lillian warned. "You are seeing Dr. King next week."

"I really think I should see someone less….involved with the family. We've known Dr. King's family for years. I really don't feel it's appropriate to have him as my psychiatrist."

"He's the best," Lillian insisted.

"In comparison to whom?"

Lillian merely shook her head and strode briskly from the room.

Emmett sat on the stool at the bar, ball cap pulled low over his eyes. Every so often he would look up at the television screen and glance at the score, trying to convince himself to at least appear interested. He wasn't.

The bartender stood off to the side observing him. His shoulders were slumped like he was carrying the weight of the world on them. His big hands were fidgety in his lap; every so often the right one would come up and rub his chin momentarily. He didn't have a drink.

"Can I get you something?" She moved a bit closer, but not close enough that she'd be invading his space. His eyes flicked to hers' quickly and he stopped dead. Brown. Deep brown with tiny flecks of barely detectable gold. They were framed in thick, dark lashes and he gazed unabashedly until she cleared her throat.

"Carlsberg, please."

She smiled sweetly and pulled a perfect beer from the tap. "Are you meeting someone?" she asked, turning around to rinse her cloth and begin wiping again. Emmett shook his head.

"Just watchin' the game," he muttered, tracing the water droplets running down the cool glass. The bartender nodded and rinsed the cloth again.

"Are you okay?" she asked, folding the cloth over the edge of the sink and leaning on her elbows on her side of the bar. Emmett looked over at her and frowned. He gave her a shrug.

"I'm alright." He sounded fatigued.

"That's probably the biggest lie I've heard all week," she half joked.

He cracked a half smile. "Probably, but you don't want to hear my problems."

"Au contraire, mon ami. You're the only customer at the bar this fine Tuesday afternoon. It's better than wiping counters."

"That's really debatable," he said, taking a long sip of his drink.

She offered her hand for him to shake. "I'm Bella. You know where to find me if you change your mind." She poked her thumb in the direction of the other end of the bar.

"Emmett," he responded, gripping her smaller hand in his beefy one.

Two hours and four beers later Emmett had moved to a booth, and Bella was sitting across from him after punching out. "What are you doing working here anyway? You seem like a smart girl." He was watching her dip her fingers into the foam on her beer, entranced, in his buzzed state, by the bubbles attaching themselves to her pale hands.

Bella shrugged. "Y'know," she offered, licking her fingers.

"I don't know," he pressed, holding his empty glass up for another round. The waitress replaced his drink and he nodded his thanks.

"It pays the bills," she muttered, taking a small sip from her glass.

"Are you in school?"

Bella shook her head. "Was," she confirmed. "But then, well….life happened."

"What does that mean?"

She pulled out her cell phone and pushed some buttons fiercely. She handed him the phone, indicating the screen as she did so. "That's my son. I got pregnant part way through my second year. I couldn't afford to finish."

The picture on the screen was blurry, but Emmett could tell from the small photograph that the child looked enough like Bella that she wasn't lying. He had fair curls, and wide round eyes. His face was covered in some kind of orange sauce. "How old is he?"

"Eighteen months last week," she told him, sounding a bit prouder. "My grandmother looks after him for me so I can work. I should actually pick him up soon," she admitted, checking her watch. "Now you know my secret," she continued, looking at him expectedly. "I've shown you mine, now show me yours."

Emmett grimaced and took another swig of beer. "My girlfriend and I broke up," he confessed. Bella nodded slowly.

"She wasn't just any girlfriend though, was she?" She spun her glass on the wooden table, waiting impatiently. Emmett couldn't help but notice how fidgety she was.

"Nah, not just any girl, that's for sure."

Bella left it at that. She knew when she'd pressed too far and the tone of Emmett's voice was telling her she was reaching dangerous territory. She'd been in a situation similar to what she was guessing Emmett was in, and she knew the pain it still brought with it when he was brought up.

"I should go pick up Carl," she whispered, rising from the booth. "It was nice talking to you, Emmett." He watched her walk away, shoulders hunched; pulling her tangled curls through a hair elastic as she walked out the door. She reminded him, in some ways, very strongly of Rosalie.

_Rosalie._ He'd tried so hard to keep from thinking too hard about her, because every time he did a fresh wave of nausea washed over him. That cold, dead feeling that came with knowing she didn't want him, even though he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything before in his entire life. And with the thoughts came the images. Images of her face falling, her mouth slowly forming those fateful words. The sight of the road as he'd looked out the window the night he'd told her to go. And with that memory the painful clenching of his stomach. Why hadn't he given her another chance? Why hadn't he made her see reason? Why hadn't he backed off on the marriage topic? They could have been happy. They had been. But he still felt something was missing. He'd wanted that security, that ring and that piece of paper binding them, that confirmation that she loved him more than anything. But she hadn't given it to him, which proved his greatest fear. She didn't love him. Not enough anyway. She didn't want him, and that thought alone was crushing him, squeezing him dry. He wanted to _breathe_ again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I realized earlier that I hadn't put a disclaimer on this story. Oops! At anyrate, like all the stories on here, I don't own the familiar characters/names, but I do own the plot. **

**A/N: I LOVE reviews...They really do encourage me to keep writing...just sayin'**

The week both dragged and flew simultaneously. Rosalie spent some time in her parents' music room, working on a piano piece that she was supposed to perform at the university after Christmas. Otherwise she mostly kept to herself, seeing her mother for evening meals, and her father far less frequently. She checked her cell phone as infrequently as possible to save herself the pang of disappointment when she saw, yet again, no messages or calls from Emmett.

And if she was completely honest with herself, she was waiting, expecting a call. That was Emmett. He was a chaser. She'd say no, and he'd come on stronger. And he wasn't this time, which made her nervous. It made her realize that they were really, truly over. And that thought was like driving a hot knife through her heart.

And to make matters worse, on Wednesday she had an appointment with Dr. King. Dr. King made her extremely uncomfortable, but in order to stay in Lillian's good books, Rosalie had agreed to therapy with him. Remaining in Lillian's good books was pertinent, as she had no other place to live. If she needed to sit through an hour a week with Dr. King to keep a roof over her head until she was ready to live alone, she wouldn't hesitate to do so. She wasn't willing to take her mother's money to pay rent, or to buy a house, and deal with the ever present scrutiny that would come with living somewhere her parents' had paid for, but she was willing to allow them to pay Dr. King for his useless services.

And to make matters _even_ worse, it was Wednesday, and she'd just heard Magda let Dr. King in and show him to the study. As she entered, she noticed him seated before her, hair slicked back harshly, too dark against his sunless skin, waiting for her.

"Good afternoon Rosalie," he greeted her smoothly. Rosalie stood in the doorway, eyes hard, looking past him towards the outdated dusty rose drapes blocking the sun. "Have a seat," he requested jovially, showing her the sofa with his right hand. She glided effortlessly and silently across the room and folded herself to a sitting position across from him. "Your mother tells me you've agreed to weekly sessions. I think that's a great start. If you're uncomfortable in anyway having the sessions in your mother's house, please let me know and we can arrange for us to meet at my home office instead." His lips curved up into what appeared to be a placating smile; one intended to smooth everything over and make the patient comfortable and warm. Rosalie marveled at Dr. King's nearly flawless acting skills.

"I think I prefer the convenience of home," she informed him, her twisting fingers the only outside clue to her discomfort.

"Good good," Dr. King muttered, tapping his heavy pen on his legal pad. He shifted in his chair and looked back up at her, pale eyes piercing. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about today?"

His body language was open, welcoming, calm. His legs were crossed over at the knee, his shoulders back but not tight, and his gaze soft. Rosalie didn't doubt for a second why people were comfortable talking to him. He was attractive, but his good looks weren't intimidating. Rather his friendly smile put people at ease, and his pale eyes, though cold in colour appeared happy. To see Dr. King walking down the street, he appeared an upstanding, average citizen. There wasn't an air of drama or trauma surrounding him, no signs of discomfort or unhappiness. He appeared completely the content middle class gentleman with a liking for khakis.

But although Rosalie could view him like an outsider would consciously, subconsciously she was anything but comfortable in his presence. She found his smile too friendly, bordering on intimidating, and she didn't like the fact that he already knew all of her family's secrets. The kind of power that gave him terrified her.

"We could talk about why you chose to move back in with your parents," he suggested. She watched his tongue dart out to wet his lips and she felt her back prickle nervously.

"I needed a change," she replied quickly, hoping if she answered some questions she'd be free to go.

"A change," he pondered aloud. "You needed a change, and so you returned to what was once familiar. Why do you think that was, Rosalie?"

"It means it was my only viable option," she snapped, dark eyes rising to meet his light ones, facing him down in some kind of undetermined challenge.

"I think it's because you missed something," he paused for effect and leaned forward, tenting his fingers. "Or someone." She watched his mouth quirk up into a half smirk, unable to look away, feeling more and more uncomfortable with every passing second. "Is there someone you missed, Rosalie?"

Rosalie sighed a deep sigh, and leaned back, away from him and into the back of the sofa. "I didn't miss anyone. I just needed a change," she droned, wishing the hour was over and her discomfort could be ignored for another week.

She watched him, eyes widening as she saw him push himself from the chair and cross the room towards her. He crossed his arms over his chest and peered at her through his glasses. "Perhaps you missed me, Rosalie?" His voice was soft, but she thought she detected an underlying threat. She felt cold, as though he was blocking the sun, and she shivered despite herself. "I can't imagine a better reason to enroll in therapy sessions you clearly feel you have no need for. You've spent the past twenty minutes staring at me, taking me in; your longing obvious. You're unhappy not because of what has or hasn't happened in your past, but of what you haven't had." He reached out and cupped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, taking in her wide, scared eyes and her pinched mouth. "Relax," he crooned in a voice that was anything but soothing. "Your secret's safe with me."

Emmett stood in front of the kitchen sink looking through the window into the back yard. He was mindlessly twisting a dish cloth around a coffee mug for what seemed like the thousandth time, trying to maintain a sense of normalcy. It had been nearly a month since Rosalie left, yet it seemed to him like her ghost still hung in the air around him, taunting him. He washed the dishes only because he knew that she hated them left cluttering up the counter, he sat on his end of the couch, still uncomfortable with stretching out to take the whole thing. Once he swore he saw her blonde curls disappearing through the bedroom door, but when he got there he realized it was just a trick of the light. He was missing her far more than he was willing to admit to anyone and his inability to move on even in the smallest of ways terrified him to no end. Just the other day, for instance, he had taken the laundry out of the dryer and began to fold his t-shirts. Half way through folding them in triangles, the way he had always preferred folding them, something struck him and caused him nearly to choke back a sob, and he realized that Rosalie _hated_ when he folded t-shirts in triangles. He'd gone back and re-folded all of his t-shirts into neat squares because the pain it caused him to do anything that might upset her, even in the tiniest way, was too strong. It was as though she'd never left, except to anyone else Emmett just looked like an obsessed man with an empty house.

He put down the now sparkling coffee mug and swiped his hands dry on his jeans. The sun was setting and he could barely see the swing where he hadn't sat since the day she'd spilled those fateful words. He turned away; glad that darkness was shrouding the memories, letting them sit away in a closed box for another night. He wandered across the house and down the hall, passing the bathroom and the smaller bedroom, and stopping at the end. To the right was the room they'd shared, where love had been made, and shown and spoken of. And to the left was a door that hadn't been opened in a month. He'd come home after she had gone, and closed the door to the room, not bothering to check whether or not the window was open to the elements. It had always been her room. He'd never ventured into it much before, and he certainly hadn't since, but on this particular night the door was calling for him, appearing eerie with the shadows and the street lights coming through the windows of the house. Light danced across the door knob, warping it and making him want to reach out and stop the psychedelic patterns from making him queasy. Against his own will his arm reached out and his huge hand hid the door knob from view, the light dancing now on his taught skin instead of the metal of the handle. He turned the knob slowly, afraid of what kind of emotions might run through him when the door opened completely. He acknowledged, if only to himself, that the fear of facing her, or the lack of her, was crippling him. His performance at work was suffering, he hadn't spoken to his friends save for a few quick text messages since before she'd left, and he'd been ignoring his family. The messages from his mother were piling up on the answering machine, sounding more and more worried as the blinking red number grew. He knew he should call her, but part of him wanted the other people in his life to feel just as unhappy as he was. He didn't want to be alone in his edginess, teetering on that fine line between angry and scared and just plain devastated.

His brief conversation with the bartender had been his only real social interaction in the more than four weeks since Rosalie had left. No. Since he'd sent Rosalie away. He hadn't been back to the bar, though he often wondered if maybe he should go back. He'd always found bar tenders the easiest to talk to, whether it was because he'd never need to see them sober, or because it's easier to talk with strangers he wasn't sure, but he was sure if he went back to the bar to talk to Bella the bartender, it wouldn't have the same effect the second time around. She wasn't a random stranger if he sought her out specifically.

His mind drifted back toward the door to the music room and he pushed gently, feeling the door give way. The room was cool, having been closed off for so long, but stuffy. The window was tightly shut and the curtains drawn. The desk in the corner where she'd spent tireless afternoons writing and rewriting and erasing was bare. A lone pencil, sharpened to a stub was unceremoniously placed in the open space. Emmett wandered slowly over to the desk and looked carefully at the pencil. It was one that had once been pink and shiny. It probably came from Rosalie's dentist, she still got to go through the treasure chest after a check-up and she always took pencils. He lifted the stub up in front of his face and looked closely. It was a pencil, sharpened perfectly as only Rosalie managed to do. He remembered she used an make-up pencil sharpener, claiming they were better balanced and the lead would always stay tight and in the center, unbreakable. The eraser was still pristine. She never used the erasers on the ends of pencils. She hated the way they smudged.

He twisted the flaking, pink cylinder in his hands thoughtfully. It was the only non-photographic evidence he had that she'd even existed in his house. He thought for another moment, and then dropped the pencil in his pocket. Then he walked back out, and closed the door.

Later that night he opened the door of the smaller bedroom across from the bathroom, and climbed into the small single bed with the red IKEA duvet cover. He didn't set an alarm.


End file.
